The Shoes

In my backyard,
the sun is drying blood spots
on leather uppers.

I don’t know if the cops will come.
A local cat has sniffed each worn and open throat,
it seems to prefer the left.

The shoes lay a few paces apart,
as if having lost the one,
the other had desperately abandoned
itself.

Footprints seem to stumble
away from the loafers.

Maybe somewhere,
two feet are laying slain,
far beyond pain.

Perhaps even now two pale feet
are being rubbed by warm hands?

Maybe just a little way from my warm bed
murder ran by,
its two tongues lolling,
gurgling with maniacal or drunken laughter?

The cops came,
they took notes.
Asked me what size shoe I take!

They grinned at each other.
then left.

They did not return.

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